A blind man’s fingers
Would trace a path
Across the knotted folds
Of knobbled flesh;

Linger over loss lines

Feel the weeping writ there

O! Most Excellent Exclamation!
and
My Sweet Semi-colon

There is a place I go
High on a cliff

The yellow-fingered dawn
takes me hand
as if to say

What a word
‘wistful’ is –

I lie in bed,
reach for the screen